Room Enough
by Lala Kate
Summary: Christmas Eve 1938: In the midst of the Great Depression, widow Abby Griffin and her boarder Marcus Kane discover that hope can be found both when and where one least expects it.
1. Chapter 1

_One, two, three…._

Just enough eggs for the chocolate cake, Abby realizes, but she'll be short for breakfast tomorrow morning if she allows herself this indulgence. The fact that tonight is Christmas Eve suddenly seems more of an excuse rather than a valid reason to squander resources such as eggs, especially when her aging hens aren't laying as quickly as she'd like. She supposes she could take in an additional tenant to help make ends meet, but that would mean moving Clarke out of her bedroom and into hers, thus disrupting the one last piece of normalcy both she and her daughter still enjoy since Jacob Griffin's death three and half years ago.

Surviving this depression without a husband or a father is hard enough. Taking one more thing away from her child is too much for Abby to contemplate at the moment, no matter how badly she needs the income.

It would be logical for her to advertise an additional vacancy, but the possibility of allowing a new person-perhaps two more if the new tenant is married or has a child, brings with it its own set of stresses.

Besides, she likes her current tenants, more than likes one of them, if she's being honest with herself, and the thought of bringing new people into her home and disrupting the comfortable rhythm she and her boarders have managed to established makes her stomach cinch uncomfortably.

"Making something special?"

She turns, wiping her hands on her apron, suddenly very self-conscious of the fact that there's probably flour on her face.

"Debating, actually," she admits, trying to swallow down the dryness in her throat that always accompanies Marcus Kane's arrival. Her long-term border raises his brow just a fraction as he plucks an angel biscuit from a plate. "Clarke's favorite chocolate cake-I make it every Christmas."

"Ah," he says, taking a step in her direction. "That sounds lovely. Why would making that be up for debate? It sounds like a tradition to be honored."

Abby sucks in a breath, her eyes dropping to the floor before they can betray her. She makes it a point not to share her financial struggles with anyone, especially her boarders, most of whom face financial straights equally as stringent as her own. But the gentleness she sees staring back at her from brown eyes she could get lost in tempts her to break her own rules,rules getting harder to keep with every day that passes and every night Marcus Kane spends under her roof.

Besides-she sees him as a friend, not simply a boarder. At least that's what she tells herself.

"Because I'm trying to ration the eggs," she states. "To make sure I have enough for everyone's breakfast tomorrow."

He shakes his head at this, tossing her a smile through his dark beard that makes her stomach flutter.

"Charlotte, Rose and Frances being stubborn?" he questions, casting a glimpse out the kitchen window towards her chicken coop.

"They're just getting older," she sighs, acutely aware of the grays peeking out on her own head.

"Aren't we all?" he says, running fingers through his own black mop, agreeably bedecked with occasional streaks of silver. Why Marcus Kane has never married is an utter mystery to her. She can't fathom how a man so polite and well-read could remain unattached for forty years, especially when he has eyes that could melt an iceberg, a voice that could soothe the most savage beast, and lips she's certain would taste like heaven. "Perhaps a little more feed might do the trick?"

"I honestly don't know if the problem is with the girls or with Rollo," she returns, trying to salvage what remains of her composure. "That rooster will be the death of me."

"Too much of a cocky attitude and not enough attention to the ladies, you mean?" he asks, the slight upturn of his mouth warming her insides.

"Something like that," she manages, feeling her cheeks heat instantaneously.

"Then he's a fool," Marcus states. "A man should never take a good woman for granted, much less three of them."

He's standing closer somehow, so close it would take nothing for one of them to cross the distance between them and move in for a kiss. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out-no clever retorts, no words of wisdom. The rather intimate turn in their conversation has her flummoxed.

"Mrs. Griffin," he begins when she finally remembers to close her mouth. "I don't think anyone will begrudge you a morning without eggs so you can make your daughter's favorite chocolate cake for Christmas, a cake many of them will enjoy, as well. And if they do, well, then they're a Scrooge of the worst variety."

"Mrs. Green might mind," she mutters, looking over his shoulder to make sure the nosy widow isn't lurking behind the door frame. "I don't think she actually likes me very much, and I'm fairly certain she curses me in Japanese everytime I tell her the rent is due."

He chuckles at this, the slight vibration of his body in such close proximity to her own a dangerous distraction.

"Mrs. Green should be helping you with the chickens rather than sitting around on the sofa all day, if you ask me," he returns. "For someone who claims to have a strong work ethic, she does far less than her fair share around here. At least her son tries to clean up after himself."

"Monty's a good boy," Abby states. "Even if his gadgets sometimes do more harm than good." She shakes her head, remembering the stilts he'd crafted so he could help her wash the windows only to end up with a broken arm. Of course, his mother had blamed Clarke for the incident, claiming that Abby's strong-willed daughter had put dangerous notion's in her son's head. The problem is that Abby isn't entirely sure that Clarke hadn't done so.

"He'll be a scientist one day," Marcus adds. "Mark my words. That young man has keen mind."

"And a good heart," Abby adds. Monty is Clarke's sole playmate these days, the treehouse Marcus constructed for the children over the summer their castle and retreat. There are times Abby is tempted to climb up there herself for a few moments of blessed escape. Rations, worry and loneliness wear on her more than she'll ever let on to her daughter.

"Are you alright?" he questions, his gaze creased in concern. She is, but she isn't, and she inhales deeply, swallowing down an odd mix of emotions as best she can.

"Things are tight, Mr. Kane," she confesses, unable to meet his gaze. "What savings my husband left behind…well,they're gone now, been gone for months." She pauses, clearing her throat, willing her hands not to shake. "I know there are many people who have it far worse than Clarke and I, and I'm not complaining. It's just…"

He moves to the table and sets his biscuit back down on the plate before stepping back into her space. His hands are around hers then, warm and calloused, large and strong, not exactly the hands she expected from a history professor. But they're his, they're perfect, and they hold her together somehow, even as her world feels as if it's coming apart from the inside out.

"You're a mother," he interjects. "A widow who shows more courage on a daily basis than I've been required to demonstrate over an entire lifetime."

"That's not true," she argues. "I know you fought in the war, and you survived."

His face darkens, his shoulders drooping slightly.

"My survival had more to do with luck than skill or courage, Mrs. Griffin," he whispers. "Far better men than I fell on the fields of France."

He's retreating into himself, even as his grip on her hands strengthens.

"Abby," she corrects, her tone somewhat unsteady. "I think we're past and Mr. Kane by now, don't you?""

She bites her lower lip, smiling softly as her words draw him back to the present. She knows he still has nightmares about the war, has heard him cry out in the night, has stood outside his bedroom door, afraid of intruding but needing to make certain he's alright.

"Abby, then," he says, his tone almost a caress. "And you're absolutely right. We should be past such formalities after living in the same house for almost a year. "

She shouldn't love the way her name sounds when he says it, shouldn't feel as giddy as a girl when he moves in a bit too close, shouldn't think inappropriate thoughts at his innocent mention of them living under the same roof. She's too old for such nonsense, but her reasoning crumbles into dust when she catches a whiff of fresh soap on his skin.

"Marcus," she breathes, feeling pressure grow behind her cheekbones. "It's a good name."

"My mother thought so, at least," he shrugs, and she laughs for the first time in what feels like weeks. "It could be far worse. My cousin got stuck with Amos Zechariah."

She laughs then, and he joins her, warming her body and soul in more ways than one.

"Make the cake, Abby," he breathes. He's still holding her hands, and she shivers as she nods, suddenly very aware of just how messy her hair must be. "I think we would all appreciate such a treat for Christmas."

"And Hanukkah," she murmurs. "I've seen your menorah when I've come into clean."

His grin is disarming.

"My mother was Jewish," he says, his thumbs now drawing circles inside her palms. "Her family immigrated to the U.S. from Prague when she was three years old, and she was determined that we would never forget our people and the beliefs passed down from one generation to the next." He pauses, his gaze dropping. "As I've no children, I try to make certain I observe what she taught me faithfully, in honor of her memory and out of respect for our people."

He swallows audibly, prompting her to squeeze his hands.

"Your life is far from over, Marcus," she murmurs, still getting used to speaking his first name out loud. "Having children isn't out of the question for you."

He studies her carefully, his gaze so intimate she feels her body react, her breath quickening, her nipples hardening to peaks.

"Perhaps not," he concedes with a small shrug, his gaze moving to their still joined hands. "But it's not exactly an ideal time to bring a child into the world, Abby."

"I'm not certain there ever is an ideal time," she returns. "Our world may be in a sad state at the moment, and children are always hard work. God knows they come with their own set of worries." She pauses, thinking of her daughter, of the purpose motherhood had given her when grief had threatened to swallow her alive. "But they're worth it. I'll never stop believing that."

"You have a gift, you know," he states. "Of finding hope even in the darkest of times. It's one thing I…" He pauses, clearing his throat as his neck flushes. "One thing I admire about you."

Heat rushes everywhere at once.

"I'm not so admirable," she argues, making him shake his head.

"But you are," he insists. "In more ways than you realize."

Silence settles around them, one charged with something that makes her toes tingle. Blood thrums in her ears, silencing the world around them, making her warm, half-dizzy, and at a complete loss of words.

"So you have family in Czechoslovakia?" she finally manages, swallowing hard as he nods.

"Not in the Sudetenland, thank God," he states. "Most of them are still in Prague, except for my Aunt Ana who is a professor at Oxford. She's quite a character-the two of you would probably get along famously." He pauses, smiling through worry, swallowing hard. "But it's not an ideal time to be a Jew in Europe these days, no matter where you reside."

His expression darkens again, and it tugs on her, pulls her into him until her hands draw away from his and slowly move towards his face, touching his beard, luring her lips towards his skin until they brush his cheek. He's both coarse and soft, tasting of sandalwood, salt and pine, an elixir she thinks she could get used to all too easily.

She draws back slowly, half-terrified of what his reaction will be.

"What was that?" he asks. There is no discomfort in his eyes, no accusation, nor does he make any moves to pull away from her. There is only warmth and surprise, tinged with a longing she instantly recognizes and meets with her own.

"Let's call it hope," she says, daring to stroke her thumb over his cheekbone as their breaths intertwine. His forehead touches down on hers, meeting her halfway, and they stand there, breathing, touching, feeling things that half terrify her even as she refuses to pull away.

"Abby," he whispers, setting off firecrackers under her skin. She clutches him even tighter, wishing she could absorb him into herself, wondering if she'll ever get her fill of this this man.

An infant's cry from upstairs rudely breaks the spell, and Marcus steps back from her, just far enough so he can look into her eyes. Something has shifted between them, something fundamental and terribly personal, and she shivers reflexively, meeting his gaze head on. He then reaches into his pocket and withdraws an envelope before placing it in her palm, closing her hand around it as he does so.

"That's for Miss Reyes," he states, continuing to clasp her hand within his.

"Marcus, there's no need…"

"I know you refuse to charge her rent," he interrupts. "And I admire that-truly. God only knows where she and her baby would be if you hadn't taken them in, Abby. But you just said it yourself-money is tight, so take this. Please. Consider it a Christmas gift."

She stares at the envelope, wondering just how much money he's placed inside of it.

"I thought the Christmas tree was my gift," she returns. His cheeks darken, and she smiles, his discomfort only increasing her attraction.

"For the children," he shrugs, doing his best to appear nonchalant. Taking both Clarke and Monty to search for just the perfect tree had been a highlight of the season for both children, and had meant the world to a young boy and a little girl forced to grow up without fathers. "This is for you. Believe me, it's far less than you deserve, and you'll go through it quickly with a new baby in the house. Just take it, please."

She nods, deeply touched by his thoughtfulness, and more than a little grateful for the money. She'd spotted Miss Reyes in town one day, heavily pregnant and sorting through the trash bin behind the market for food. Abby had brought her home, had given her the room she and Jake had planned to make into a nursery until he'd passed away and she'd miscarried their second child. Marcus had helped her fashion a bed for the unmarried expectant mother out of a spare mattress and cheap lumber, and they'd all welcomed her baby boy a few weeks later, a tiny, black-headed infant with a robust set of lungs his mother had named Flynn.

"After his papa," Raven had confided one evening. "May he rest in peace."

Abby isn't certain how much respect she has for the man who had impregnated the young woman then shot himself when he lost his second job within three months. What in God's name had he been thinking, leaving Raven alone in a country not her own with both a language barrier and the stigma of bearing a child out of wedlock on shoulders that shouldn't have to bear so much. A young life purposely wasted is something she has a hard time comprehending.

"On one condition," Abby states, clearing her throat. "You have to bring your menorah downstairs tonight and let all of us observe the seventh night of Hanukkah with you. Consider us your family. Teach us what your mother taught you."

Gratitude fills his expression, his eyes creasing with emotion.

"You drive a hard bargain," he teases, squeezing her hand once more. "But it would be my sincerest honor to share Hanukkah with you." He brings her hand to his lips, placing a kiss upon her skin that shoots sparks everywhere at once. His mouth lingers on her hand, his breath consecrating what he has just marked as his own. "I'll see you later, Abby."

"Later," she mutters, unable to tear her eyes from him as he turns and exits. The hand he kissed trembles, and she brings it to her cheek, pressing it against heated skin as she wonders what all of this means.

 _I'll see you later, Abby._

Later will be at approximately 4:00 pm today, for she knows his teaching schedule by heart, knows exactly what time to serve dinner so that none of her boarders will miss it, and she sighs as she turns back to her counter, pausing to study the plate of biscuits.

There are only three left.

This can't be right-she'd made fourteen this morning-had counted them herself as she set them out for breakfast. She and Clarke had each eaten one, as had Mrs. Green. Monty had nabbed two, and Marcus had swiped his second just now on his way out the door. There should be seven left, but no matter which way she looks at it, the truth is staring her in the face. Only three biscuits remain.

What in God's name has happened to the other four?

At least she has enough left for Raven to eat, but she'd planned on serving the remaining ones with last night's leftover ham for lunch. Someone must have been hungrier than she'd realized, and she reasons it was Clarke or Monty. Was one of the children experiencing a growth spurt, or had the two of them found another stray dog they'd taken to feeding from her kitchen? She'll speak with them later, knowing from experience that it's not difficult to wheedle the truth out of Monty Green.

There's no use in agonizing over it, she reasons, so she moves to the refrigerator to assemble the ingredients for the chocolate cake she looks forward to serving now for more reasons than one.

 _Make the cake, Abby._

She'll prepare it for Marcus as well as for Clarke, will celebrate old traditions as new relationships seek to put down roots. Her stomach flutters as she remembers the feel of scruff against her hand, her lips, her fingers, and she inhales deeply, knowing that she needs to put such fanciful notions out of her head and get to work on preparations for Christmas Eve Dinner. She reaches into the refrigerator, stopping as her hands tell her what her eyes are still trying to take in.

A full bottle of milk is missing. It would seem a thief is afoot.


	2. Chapter 2

An extra gallon of milk had cost her fifty cents, money that hadn't hurt so badly to spend thanks to Marcus's gift. She prepares the frosting as the cake continues to cool, pausing to look in on the roast she's cooking in place of her traditional Christmas ham. It wouldn't do to prepare a ham for Hannukah, although she has no doubt that Marcus wouldn't utter a word of protest if that's what she'd chosen to serve on Christmas Eve. He'd smile, thank her for an incredible meal and would help her clean up afterwards as had become his routine.

How long have they been dancing around each other, she wonders. Has he been pining silently just as she as she washed and he dried, afraid of crossing some invisible line that existed only in mutual insecurities? She shakes her head, attempting to focus on the task at hand rather than the bearded wonder who'd turned her Christmas upside down in all the right ways. The loaves of bread are rising nicely on the countertop, and the house smells like Christmas, full, warm, and not lacking for anything.

If only the latter were true.

"I'm trying, Jake," she whispers, twisting her apron nervously in her hands. "It's not been easy since you left, but I'm doing my best." Tears prick the corners of her eyes, and she imagines him standing behind her, holding her to his chest, kissing the side of her neck, calling her "Abbs" as he secretly stroked her breasts while Clarke played in the next room.

"I hope you're alright with this, with Marcus and me," she continues, glancing down at the hand Marcus had kissed, one that still bore Jake's ring. "Because it feels right to me."

She somehow knows that it is, knows that Jake would want her to move on and find happiness again, knows he'd want a strong father-figure for the daughter he loved beyond reason. He'd like Marcus-she's certain of it, and she can picture them sitting in front of the fireplace discussing books, current events and history, sipping Jake's favorite port or Marcus's prized Scotch whiskey that he keeps tucked away in his room. Peace floods her then as it always does when she speaks to her deceased husband, but something is different this time, something tall, dark, and irresistible, something that feels a whole lot like a new beginning, a merging of her future and past.

"I'm fairly certain that I love him."

Her lips tremble as the words tumble out, and she clasps her hands together in a silent prayer before tugging the silver band off of her finger. She stares at it, the sun's weakened rays still managing to make it shimmer like frost, and she brings it to her lips, kissing it in a silent benediction. Years of history prickle against her mouth before overtaking her heart, and she lets herself cry one last time for the man who'd taught her how to love and had given her his child.

"I'll always love you, you know," she breathes, wiping her cheeks as she tucks the ring securely into her dress pocket. "Always. But I'm ready to do this again."

Her pocket feels heavier, a reassurance she treasures as she wipes off the counters, careful not to disturb the two jars of green beans from her garden she and Marcus had strung and canned nor the yellow potatoes she'd brought up from the larder. She smiles at remembered conversations they'd shared at the kitchen table, remembering the first time she'd really wanted him to kiss her, wondering now if he'd felt the same.

Sometimes she's just too damned stubborn for her own good.

She stares out the kitchen window, wondering just where Clarke and Monty had run off to after lunch. They'd managed to get away before she'd had the chance to question them about the biscuits, and she hopes Clarke remembered to put on her toboggan and scarf. They've been gone most of the afternoon, and cold winds are picking up, the sun having little to no effect against winter's determined blast.

Baby Flynn starts to cry again, and Abby sighs, wondering what has the infant so out of sorts this afternoon. He's fussy, fighting sleep both she and Flynn's exhausted mother would welcome with open arms. She really should go and relieve Raven while she has time to sit down, and besides, the thought of rocking a baby a few minutes sounding like a small piece of heaven in her nostalgic state. She moves upstairs, noting that cold air is seeping into the house again, so she darts into Clarke's room to borrow the thick, warm yellow blanket a former boarder and knitted for her daughter two Christmases ago.

She can't find it anywhere.

It's not on Clarke's bed, nor in her doll crib, her dresser, or even in her closet. Abby pauses, scratching her head as she searches under the bed, doing her best to remember the last time she saw Clarke snuggling into the blanket. It's the girl's favorite, and she insists on wrapping herself up in it every night. She had last night, as well-Abby's certain of it, recalls it clearly as she remembers kissing Clarke goodnight and tucking her in securely.

She finally gives up and goes to her own bedroom to retrieve the smallest quilt she owns from the top shelf of her closet, one her grandmother had made for her when she was twelve. She reaches up for it automatically, only to find that it's not where it should be either. Baby Flynn's wails grow louder, and she swears under her breath, finally putting her hands on a nearly threadbare quilt she'd wrapped her favorite doll in when she was a girl. This will have to do.

She makes her way to Raven's room, knocking gently, moving back a step when the younger woman opens the door. Dark circles smudge skin under bloodshot eyes, her color a shade too pale, her nerves clearly on edge. She's far too thin for a nursing mother, Abby notices, thin, scared, grieving, and terribly sleep-deprived. These are emotions she understands all too well.

"Why don't you let me take him for a while," Abby offers, extending her arms towards the crying infant. "You need to rest."

Raven's eyes fill with tears, and Abby moves into the room, embracing the younger woman gently, careful not to squish the baby.

"It's going to be alright," Abby breathes, stroking dark hair. Raven's tears dampen her shoulder as Flynn screams all the louder, not at all pleased at being pressed in between the two women. Raven pulls back slightly, nodding as she slowly hands over her son, wiping her cheeks self-consciously. Abby cradles Baby Flynn to her chest, wrapping the worn quilt around him as she kisses the dark head and rubs his back.

"I just fed him," the younger woman states, her accent more pronounced in her agitated state. "I don't know why he's crying."

"It could be several things," Abby says. "A gassy stomach, the need for attention, or he could just be overly tired. The two of us will go rock for a while and see if we can sooth each other, alright?"

Raven nods, sniffling as she wipes her face yet again.

"Gracias," she murmurs, attempting a small smile. "You're so good, Senora Griffin. You remind me of my mother." Abby reaches out with one arm, squeezing the young mother's shoulder as her heart swells up inside her.

"My pleasure," she returns. The girl is quickly beginning to feel like family, making Abby feel a bit like a surrogate grandmother to the infant snuggling into her breasts. God help her, she's not that old yet...is she? She shakes her head, bouncing Baby Flynn gently as she seeks to clear her mind. "Now lie down and get some sleep, Raven. Raising a baby is hard enough. Trying to raise one alone has to be exhausting."

Raven nods, clicking her door shut as Abby steps back into the hall. She carries her squalling charge to her bedroom, managing to deposit her wedding ring onto her nightstand before settling into the well-loved rocking chair with a sigh of relief.

"Shh," she instructs, rubbing the baby's back in time with the chair's movement. "It's alright, sweet boy. It's alright."

She begins to hum _Silent Night_ , tears pricking the corners of her eyes as memories of Jake again flood her mind. His smooth tenor voice always drowned out her plunked chords and arpeggios on the old Kimball, a fact which was just fine with her as she's never been confident in her playing ability. Sometimes he'd even cajole her into singing alto to his melody, something she enjoyed but made her feel terribly self-conscious.

Abby sighs, silently rebuking herself for avoiding the piano over the years since Jake's death. She'd feared that touching the out of tune keys would reopen stubborn wounds, wounds that are somehow less sensitive now than they were even one year ago. She continues to rock Baby Flynn and hum, wondering if the child she'd lost had been a boy, imagining what he would now look like had she been allowed to carry to term and give birth, reminding herself how much harder things would be if she'd been left to raise two children alone rather than one. She'd have a three year old now as well as an eight year old, she reminds herself, and she pictures a towheaded, blue-eyed boy following Clarke around everywhere, getting underfoot in the kitchen, banging on piano keys in spite of her protests, trying to help Marcus build the backyard treehouse as he squeals in glee.

The child then morphs into a different one, one with dark hair and brown eyes, one who bears an uncanny resemblance to a certain boarder who has carved out a place for himself in her heart before she'd realized what had happened. Heat floods her body as the rocking chair continues to squeak, and she closes her eyes, indulging in thoughts she should at least attempt to keep at bay.

Marcus had been about to kiss her earlier, she's certain of it, and God help her, she'd wanted him to kiss her. She'd wanted to kiss him back, to taste him, to feel him pressed up against her in all sorts of inappropriate and delicious ways, ways that could impregnate her with the very child she'd just been imagining. She's too old to have another baby, she chides herself as she rocks Raven's son, even though she knows women older than she who have successfully given birth. But she's not too old to make love to a man who makes her ache in places that have been dormant far too long.

She should stop such fanciful notions, should keep herself from longing for something that could hurt her yet again, but she doesn't want to let go, damn it, not when parts of her are finally coming back to life after a long and bitter winter. Maybe it's time to allow music back into the house and her life, she muses, as remembered sensations of black scruff brushing her hand make her tingle. What would that scruff feel like on her neck, against her breasts, hovering over her naval, daring to drop lower right between her thighs?

Such thoughts are dangerous, but horribly, horribly addictive.

She continues to hum, the combination of her voice, body heat and the steady rocking motion slowing Fynn's cries until only an occasional whimper remains. Muscles relax, breathing steadies, and the baby finally sleeps on her chest, his warm, boneless weight as calming to her as she is to him. The quilt feels soft under her fingers, thinner than she'd like for the baby yet warm enough to lull the child to sleep.

She wonders again about the missing blankets. What are those children up to today?

Grabbing some extra biscuits and milk is explainable, but stealing blankets and quilts? Are they creating some sort of fort, and if so, why wouldn't they ask her before simply grabbing the quilts and running off to God knows where? Clarke knows better, and Abby can't fathom what would prompt Monty to act in such a way unless he was simply following her daughter's orders.

Clarke Griffin is going to find herself in a heap of trouble this Christmas Eve.

Her eyelids grow heavy as the baby continues to sleep, and she's weary, the need to stretch her muscles suddenly of utmost importance. If she's going to lie down, this will be her only chance to do so, and with it being Christmas Eve, she knows she'll be up far past her bedtime making final preparations for tomorrow. Her decision made, she stands gingerly and crosses the room to her bed where she sits gently upon the mattress, careful not to wake the sleeping child. The bed frame squeaks under her weight, and she kicks off her shoes, allowing them to drop to the woven rug with a soft thud as she manages to hoist her legs up onto the bed. She positions Fynn beside her, surrounding him with pillows to ensure that he doesn't roll off the mattress, and stretches one arm over her head, closing her eyes, revelling in the feel of her pillow under her aching neck.

Yes. This was a good idea.

Her body won't allow her to sleep long, she knows this from experience, and she glances towards the window once more, smiling as she hears Clarke and Monty's voices approaching the house. _They're home_ , she thinks, breathing easier as the front door squeaks open and closes behind them. She'll deal with the missing food and blankets later, she assures herself as she looks at her ring once more before her eyelids close and fatigue drags her under.

"Abby."

 _Marcus_ , she whispers, smiling as thoughts of him creep into her sleep-drugged mind. Fingers stroke her forehead, and she almost purrs at the sensation, leaning into a large hand cupping her face.

"Wake up, Abby."

She doesn't want to wake up, but an unidentified urgency tugs her towards the surface as something beside her squirms. _Flynn,_ she thinks as memory awakens and pushes her into semi-consciousness. Her eyes flutter open, and she turns to look at the baby, his dark blue eyes open, his pink lips pursed into an _O_. Her gaze drifts past him to the one who awakened her, the one now smiling down at her with a tenderness she can't resist.

"Marcus," she breathes as he strokes her cheek. "What are you doing home so early?"

"It's four o'clock," he states, making her sit upright in a panic. "Not quite as early as you think."

"Four o'clock?" she exclaims, flinching as Flynn's chin begins to tremble. Marcus scoops up the boy before she has time to think, whispering endearments as he holds the infant to his chest. "Please tell me you're joking."

Sleep's cobwebs unravel as she blinks repeatedly.

"I'm afraid not," he returns. "Which is why I chose to wake you. I assumed you hadn't meant to sleep so late."

She shakes his head as he stands, bouncing the baby as she moves to the edge of the bed to reach for her shoes. She sighs as the mattress squeaks in protest.

"Abby," he breathes, now standing as still as a statue, his eyes glued to her nightstand. "You've taken off your ring."

She freezes, looking up at him, registering shock and wonder on his face, wishing she could read his mind.

"I did," she returns, trying to keep her voice steady. "It seemed like the right time."

One corner of his mouth raises up, his half-smile nearly knocking the wind out of her before an out and out grin overtakes his features. Brown eyes soften, staring at her as if seeing a part of her for the first time, even though she's certain he can read her like a book.

"I'm glad," he breathes, continuing to rub Flynn's back. "I know that was a big step for you."

She stands, her shoes all but forgotten as she gazes up at him.

"It was. But it feels right."

He's just there, his scent filling her senses, his breath tickling her cheek.

"It does, doesn't it?" he whispers, clearing her throat and taking a step towards her. Her leg hits the bed frame, and the blasted thing squeaks as it hits the wall, making her flinch.

"Perhaps I should leave," Marcus states, still close enough to touch. "It wouldn't do for Mrs. Green to see me walking out of your room just after your bed made such a racket."

She pauses, gazing up at him open-mouthed, unable to keep herself from laughing at the sparkle in his eye.

"If it weren't for Baby Flynn, I'd make this thing squeak louder on purpose just to see what she'd say."

The grin he tosses her is full of mischief, and her cheeks heat instantly.

"Be careful, Abby," he says, his voice smooth as bourbon. "It wouldn't do for you to end up on the naughty list on Christmas Eve."

She stands and steps towards him, the room suddenly charged with an electricity that thrills her.

"Are you certain the nice list is all it's cracked up to be?"

He's close enough for her to feel his body heat.

"No," he breathes. "I actually think people don't belong on a list of any kind."

Desire is tinged with worry, and she touches his cheek, stroking his beard with her thumb.

"I agree," she whispers. Her mind is still a bit fogged from sleep, her body moving toward what it craves without reservation. "I wish I could fix everything for you and your family."

He stares into her as he leans into her touch, exhaling with force.

"You've fixed me," he breathes, his forehead touching down on hers. "In more ways than you can possibly ever know."

Her chest swells as she cups his face and rubs her nose delicately against his, her mouth dry, her heart attempting to burst from her body. She's about to combust right here in her bedroom, right here on Christmas Eve with a man who has rearranged her life before she even realized what was happening. She swallows, trying to think, trying to breathe as new love takes up a slow dance both familiar and uncertain.

"I really want to kiss you right now, Abby. Very badly."

She swallows audibly, her cheeks on fire.

"What's stopping you?"

They gaze at each other, lost in a moment neither of them anticipated, ready to grab onto this second chance at life with all that they're worth. Baby Flynn chooses that moment to protest, grunting as a pervasive odor lets them both know that he's just filled his diaper. Disappointment hits her for a mere second, then they laugh at the hilarity of it all, unable to help themselves before Marcus leans down and kisses her forehead.

"Consider that an I.O.U.," he states, wrinkling his nose as the baby starts to squall. "When I really kiss you for the first time, I want to do it properly."

"That almost sounds like a threat," she teases, biting her lower lip at his resulting grin.

"Consider yourself warned," he returns, his tone low and private. "Kissing you is something I've wanted to do for a long time, Abby. Believe me, I intend to do it right."

She shivers, her nipples hardening as her thighs over heat. He caresses her cheek before stepping back a fraction and touching the baby's nose.

"I'll go change him and return him to his mother, then I'll help you with Christmas Eve dinner, if you like."

She's nodding before her voice can catch up with her, her mind and tongue working independently of each other.

"I'd like that," she finally manages as she hears the front door slam shut. "Very much." She clears her throat and takes a deep breath. "I actually need to have a chat with my daughter and Monty first, however. It would seem they've been pilfering food and blankets today."

His brow creases.

"That's odd," he says. "Would you like me to investigate?'

They walk towards her door, Flynn's cries temporarily silenced as the child sucks on Marcus's knuckle.

"That would be very helpful, actually," she answers, trying to cool down her nether regions as sparks burn low in her belly. "I can finish up in the kitchen then."

"It's a deal," he states, looking into her in a manner only Jake ever had. She smiles at him, and he does the same before turning to head towards Raven's room with a glance back in her direction. "God knows you're far better in the kitchen than I am, and I'm probably a bit less intimidating to Clarke than her mother if she's mixed up in something she shouldn't be. I'll report in once I've cracked the case."

"Sounds like a plan," she says, watching him move towards Raven's room, unable to shake the feel of his breath feathering her skin. She smiles as she moves down the stairs, feeling years younger and a few pounds lighter as her legs practically float.

 _I really want to kiss you right now, Abby. Very badly._

God, how she wants him to kiss her, how she wants to kiss him, to hold him, to share parts of herself with him she'd kept in hiding since her husband's death. The kitchen now seemed hotter than usual and far more sensual than it had a right to be.

 _Get to work, Abby_ , she chides herself as her lady parts begin to pulse. Now is no time to be all worked up, not with Christmas Eve dinner quickly approaching.

The bread has risen nicely, she notes, exhaling in relief as she checks on the roast. So far, so good, so she removes it from the oven to give it a good basting. It's then she notices a bowl full of fresh brown eggs on the counter, accompanied by a handwritten note.

 _Looking forward to dessert tonight. -Marcus_

He'd replenished the eggs she'd used to make the cake so no one would have to go without tomorrow morning. Is there anything about this man that isn't wonderful? She looks over at the chocolate cake, glad she'd let him talk her into making it. But it's the promise of dessert of another sort that has her all warm and flustered, prompting her to pour herself a glass of water as she moves towards the jars of green beans she'd brought up from the basement to heat up for tonight.

She stops in her tracks, staring at what shouldn't be but is. There is only one jar of green beans where there are supposed to be two. The thief has struck yet again.


	3. Chapter 3

Ire shoots through her, and she exhales out her nose, frustration with her Christmas saboteurs reaching a boiling point in a matter of seconds. She's about to yell her daughter's name when she remembers that Marcus has gone to speak with the children, so she inhales slowly, exhaling with a hiss this time as she reminds herself that Clarke and Monty are only children, that they're intentions are most likely not malicious.

So help her, if they've fed the green beans she grew, picked, strung, and canned to a stray mutt, she'll have their hides. They're welcome to feed hungry animals any scraps left over from dinner, both Clarke and Monty know this, but to go after good food when money is scarce…

A dull throbbing sensation takes root behind her eyes, and she rubs her temples, forcing herself to count to ten as she grabs a knife to start peeling potatoes. She loses herself in the rhythm of food preparation, pausing repeatedly to look out the window and wonder just what plot Marcus may have unearthed.

Has he given them a good talking to? Has he found the missing items and weaseled an explanation out of the children? Or is something afoot that has nothing to do with Clarke and Monty?

That thought rather terrifies her.

The potatoes have cooked, and she's mashing them, concern mounting as daylight retreats all too hastily when she spies the three of them traipsing through the back yard.

Thank God, she mutters, wiping her hands on her apron as she sets down the potato masher and dashes to meet them at the back door, pushing it open before the trio has even reached the porch steps.

Clarke steps back from her, clasping Marcus's hand like a lifeline as she dares a look at her mother. Guilt is splashed across the girl's features, and Monty drops his gaze to the ground, afraid to even look at Abby, it would seem. She opens her mouth to speak but is cut off before she can get a word in edgewise.

"Abby," Marcus says, stepping closer with both children in tow. "Clarke and Monty have something they need to say to you."

He pauses, looking meaningfully first at Monty and then at Clarke.

"We're sorry, Mom," the girl gushes, one word toppling on top of another. "We should have asked before we took the biscuits, milk and beans."

"And the blankets," Monty adds, his voice barely audible. He bites his lower lip and tugs his toboggan down until it practically covers his eyes. "Sorry, Mrs. Griffin. Please don't tell my mother."

She opens her mouth, fully prepared to inform Monty that she must apprise his mother of what has happened, but Marcus interrupts before she can utter a word.

"Before you get too angry, there's something you need to see." He drops the children's hands and moves closer to her, the mingled scents of cold and pine wafting from him making it difficult to think. "Trust me on this."

There's something in his expression she can't decipher, but she nods without a second thought, her mind running in circles.

"Alright," she states. "What is it?"

"You should probably get your coat," Marcus tells her. "We may be a few minutes."

Her first thought is of what she still needs to do to complete Christmas dinner preparations, but when she looks at her daughter's earnest expression, she knows that most of it can wait without any disastrous results. She heads to the coat closet, reminding herself again that she really needs to patch the hole in her left pocket as she joins the guilty parties and their newly-appointed advocate in the back yard. The four of them set off to God knows where, Clarke and Monty darting in front of her and Marcus in a near-sprint. 

"It's alright," Marcus assures her, taking her hand within his own. The gesture feels familiar somehow, as if a stray puzzle piece of her life has finally found its perfect fit."They know where they're going."

"I just don't want them to trip," she returns. "It's getting dark awfully fast, and there have been burglaries reported in the neighborhood recently. They're just kids."

"I know," he assures her. "But we're here to keep an eye on them-remember?" He squeezes her hand, and she clings to it as a bitter wind stings her cheeks. "I'll make sure nothing happens to either Clarke or Monty."

She has no doubt that he means exactly what he says.

Her heart flutters as they pick up their pace, their mingled breaths intertwining in chilled air as the children lead them down the alley at the end of their street. For a moment, Abby can't see them, and her heart speeds up as she imagines all sorts of evils that could befall Clarke and Monty in a dark alley. Hobos have been known to set up camp there, and although most of them are harmless, folks have reported the occasional ruffian causing trouble or being drunk and disorderly. She's breathless when she and Marcus finally make it to another alley entrance just seconds behind the children, pausing to allow their eyes to adjust to a darkness that is almost stifling.

It stinks here, there's no way around it as the stenches of garbage and unwashed humans mix with desperation and alcohol. She fights back the urge to gag, wondering what in God's name they're all doing in a place like this on Christmas Eve.

"Marcus, why are we…"

She stops short just a few steps into the alley, steadied by strong arms as she nearly trips over what she's been brought to see. There's a makeshift shelter directly in front of her, one constructed of discarded pieces of wood, a broken chair and the quilt she'd been searching for earlier. She touches the well-loved material as she moves closer, kneeling down beside her daughter in front of the shabby enclosure to look inside, refusing to cover her nose regardless of the smells assaulting her.

Two huddled forms stare back at her from the darkness, their gazes bleak, direct and unflinching. Oh God-they're children.

The boy can't be more than eleven years old, but he's clearly in charge here, all four feet plus inches of him, topped with matted, black curls that fall over his forehead and spill into his eyes. He bears the stance of a defender, clearly guarding the smaller person partially hidden behind him, possibly a younger sibling. She shifts, only to see that the other child is a little girl, one with wild, black tangles that fall down her back and cover her face, one wrapped up snuggly in Clarke's yellow blanket.

"Oh my God."

Marcus kneels down behind her, giving her space as she processes the scene before her. Her stomach lurches, but she bites back the urge to vomit as he steadies her from behind.

"I know," he breathes, his hand coming to rest on her back. "They're orphans, Abby. Clarke and Monty found them yesterday, and that's when they…"

"When they decided to bring them some food and blankets," Abby finishes for him, her shoulders sagging. "I should have known they had a good reason." Tears sting her eyelids as she continues to stare at the children, her insides freezing faster than her extremities when she thinks of them living in such conditions with no adult to watch over them. "Do we know their names?"

"This is Bellamy," Clarke informs them. "He's ten years old. And that's his little sister, Octavia. She's five."

Dark brows knit together in an attempt to look fierce and far more grown than he is, which only melts Abby's heart all the faster.

"Hello, Bellamy," she states, clearing her throat as she extends her hand slowly. "I'm Mrs. Griffin, Clarke's mother."

The boy stares at her warily, unwilling to move until Clarke nods her head reassuringly.

"It's okay," her daughter says. "Mom won't hurt you-I promise. She's the one who made the biscuits you liked so much."

The boy blinks at this, extending a partially gloved hand, one Abby takes within her own. She flinches when she feels how cold his fingers are, wondering just when these children last had a hot meal or a warm place to sleep. Dried mucus covers the bottom of Bellamy's nose, and she fights the urge to pull him into her arms and hold him close as she would Clarke. He's only a boy, after all, a boy deprived of his parents at a time he needs them most. But his background is unknown, and such a move might terrify him, no matter how kindly she means the gesture to be.

That doesn't mean, however, that she can't take care of him.

"Are you hungry? Because I'm cooking Christmas Dinner at my house right now, and I have plenty of food for you and your sister."

The invitation is out before she can second guess herself, and Marcus rubs her back as the boy blinks at her repeatedly before looking at his sister, fear and mistrust clearly battling hunger and cold. Clarke jumps in then, touching Bellamy's shoulder as she grins excitedly.

"Please, Bellamy," the girl begs. "Come with us! Then Christmas will be perfect!"

Octavia coughs then, not a deep or dangerous cough but one that could become problematic if not treated properly. Abby releases Bellamy's hand and ducks to move in closer to the little girl, wondering just what color her skin actually is underneath various layers of dirt.

"I can make you some chicken soup, sweetheart," Abby murmurs, daring to stroke the girls' matted hair. "And some hot tea with honey. They should make you feel better." The girl licks her lips, not flinching from Abby's touch but also not saying a word. Abby's not at all certain the child can understand her, or perhaps she's simply in a state of shock. Neither option is all that attractive nor appropriate for a girl of her age to be experiencing, however, so she redirects her attention to Bellmay. "Why don't you two come home with us tonight-hmm? Share Christmas with us?"

Octavia's answering cough instantly makes up her brother's mind.

"Okay," the boy says, his own voice hoarse with congestion and cold. Abby watches Clarke extend her hand towards Bellamy, unable to contain hot tears as the children move out of the shelter and stand hand in hand. She should have known the thefts were for a good cause. She should have trusted her daughter's heart. Monty then joins the pair as Marcus moves in beside her, scooping up Octavia and holding her to his chest as they prepared to make their way home. Abby tucks the blanket around the girl, checking her forehead to make certain she has no fever.

"She's okay," she replies in response to Marcus's unasked question. "But another night out in the cold won't do her any good."

"But chicken soup and hot tea with honey will," he says, kissing the top of her head when the other children aren't looking.

"They certainly can't hurt," she returns with a shrug, touching Octavia's forehead again without thinking. "We need to get them inside as soon as possible."

"Thank you for doing this," he mutters as they begin to make their way back to her house. "I know it's not easy…"

"I can't leave them here, Marcus," she interrupts. "No more than you can."

He exhales audibly, holding Octavia closer as she continues to cough.

"I know," he states, repositioning the girl into a more secure position. She coughs again, and he rubs her back as he had Baby Flynn's earlier. "I'm not all that certain she can hear us, Abby. Clarke told me that Bellamy signs to her and that she never speaks."

"She's deaf," Abby deduces, her heart squeezing all the tighter. "Oh, God. Poor baby. She's cold, she's sick, and she can't communicate..." She reaches out to touch the girl's arm, giving it a gentle squeeze when she meets no resistance. "I don't know how to sign."

"Neither do I," Marcus admits, huffing as they turn a corner. "But we can learn, I suppose."

We. The word warms her like hot cider.

"Yes," she returns, somehow understanding that they're now speaking of a more than one night commitment when it comes to these children. "We can."

It's completely dark now, the only light available coming from other homes and what part of the moon peeks out from gathering clouds. There's a stillness to the air, one that makes her wonder if it just might snow tonight, and she shivers when she thinks of these children possibly enduring a night in a snowstorm with no more than a blanket or two to keep them warm.

Octavia clings to Marcus's neck as if she's afraid he'll drop her, sniffing loudly just as they reach Abby's back yard. She watches as Bellamy stops in front of the back porch steps, hesitant to follow Clark and Monty up and into the house.

"It's alright, Bellamy," Abby assures him, touching his shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. "You and Octavia are our guests. You're welcome in our home."

She doesn't let go as he dares to move up the stairs and into the kitchen, the smells of Christmas Eve Dinner nearly knocking them all over when they step inside. Bellamy's eyes widen as they glance around the kitchen, seeing a feast in offerings Abby would have by no means considered extravagant.

How quickly perspectives can change.

"Here," she says, moving to the counter to retrieve one of the remaining angel biscuits. "This should tie you over until dinner."

Dark eyes stare at the biscuit before a hesitant hand reaches out and accepts it. Bellamy takes a small bite before abandoning his trepidation and shoving the entire thing into his mouth. He's too skinny, his face minus any traces of baby fat, his cheeks a shade too hollow. Abby then hears a clink and turns towards the stove to spy the can of green beans the children had taken earlier.

"Here are the beans," Monty states. "But the milk is all gone."

"Good," Abby returns. "I'm sure these two needed it more than we did."

Monty smiles then before hearing his mother call out his name.

"Go check in with your mother," Marcus instructs him, ignoring the boy's panicked expression. "Tell her we have special guests for dinner tonight."

"I'm not going to tell her about the food you and Clarke took," Abby assures him, her declaration greeted by a large exhale of relief. "You're not in trouble for trying to help children in need."

Monty nods, his eyes still wide but a shade calmer as he does as Marcus suggests, looking over his shoulder one last time before disappearing around the corner. Marcus moves towards her then, Octavia still cradled securely against his chest.

"I'll heat up those beans and bake the bread after these two get warm," Abby states, observing Bellamy has he stares longingly at the chocolate cake. "I think a bath might restore body heat faster than anything."

She won't say the word filthy in Bellamy's hearing, but there's no need to do so. Marcus nods, gesturing towards the front room and the staircase.

"Why don't you help Octavia bathe first?" he suggests. "The steam might help loosen her cough and congestion, and her hair will take longer to dry than her brother's. Then I can run a bath for Bellamy."

The boy coughs at this, spewing biscuit crumbs out of his mouth and onto the tile floor. Marcus pours him a glass of water, watching as Bellamy guzzles it far too quickly.

"Clarke should have something Octavia can wear," Abby reasons as they walk towards the steps. "And I'm certain Monty might have something for Bellamy."

"I'll ask Mrs. Green," Marcus states, making Abby breathe a sigh of relief. That wasn't a conversation she'd looked forward to having, knowing the widow would give her the third degree before agreeing to share anything that belonged to her son.

"Thank you," she breathes, leading the way upstairs to her private bathroom. The water begins to fill the tub as Marcus deposits Octavia onto the floor, the sight of how tiny the girl truly is startling her. What the hell is she doing, she wonders suddenly, staring at a strange child with needs far greater than she can ever fill.

"I'll leave you two alone," Marcus says, tossing her a tight smile as he shuts the door behind him, leaving her in a slight panic. She breathes in and out, reminding herself that if she's nervous, Octavia is probably terrified, being alone with a woman she doesn't know in a house that isn't her own. Abby looks at the little girl, reaching out to touch the ragged sweater the child is wearing, wondering what color the drab, gray yarn used to be.

"I'm going to take this off," Abby states, speaking slowly as she tugs gently on one sleeve. "So you can take a bath." She points then to the tub, waiting to see if Octavia resists her, somewhat surprised when she doesn't. Abby undresses the girl slowly, placing her discarded clothes into a pile she intends to wash tomorrow, hoping there are no fleas or lice attached. She helps her into the bathtub, watching as the child's eyes close and she breathes in slowly.

It would seem a warm bath is to Octavia's liking.

She sits in the water, rubbing her arms, watching in fascination as dirt loosens its grip on her skin and turns the water a murky gray. Abby hands her a soapy wash rag, demonstrating what to do, smiling as Octavia mimics her motions and begins to come clean in earnest. Washing her hair with clean water from the tap proves to be a rather daunting task, one Abby tackles by gently detangling twigs and burrs from long locks as Octavia claps in glee.

"You like the water, don't you?" Abby asks, grinning as the girl makes waves with her feet. How long has it been since either child has bathed, she wonders, nearly as wet as her young charge when the bath is finally over and Octavia steps out of the tub.

She laughs as Abby dries her, clutching the fluffy towel around her and pressing it to her nose. Octavia inhales, smiling, evidently in love with its scent, making Abby nearly cry all over again as she realizes how accustomed the girl has probably grown to filth.

That is going to change. Immediately.

Octavia has a small coughing fit, one that prompts her to cough up phlegm Abby instructs her to spit into the toilet. She pours the girl a glass of water, watching as she drinks it with as much gusto as her brother had downstairs. Then the girl shivers, prompting Abby to wrap the towel more tightly around her as she grabs some clean clothes.

She dresses Octavia in one of Clarke's old play dresses with matching panties, a set she'd sewn herself, wincing at her uneven stitches, wondering how she'd never noticed them before now. Octavia tugs at the fabric, staring at it before twirling around and spraying Abby with a new round of droplets from the girl's hair. She laughs at this, clearly amused by getting Abby wet, making Abby laugh in return as she takes the girl's hand and leads her to a mirror.

"We've got to deal with these tangles now," she states, picking up a comb. "I'll be as gentle as I can, but this isn't going to be easy."

Octavia likes baths. Having her hair combed, not so much.

It's a struggle, but Abby's will proves stronger as she purposefully resists the pouty faces being thrown at her by a pint-sized ball of determination.

"You'll thank me later," Abby states, picking through one particularly difficult tangled mass of hair. Octavia does not appear to be convinced.

They emerge back into the kitchen some time later, neither worse for wear, Clarke jumping up and down when she recognizes the dress Octavia is wearing.

"It's perfect," Clarke squeals, giving Octavia a giant hug. "We look like sisters now."

The words sock Abby soundly in the gut.

"They do, you know."

She spins around, spotting Marcus and a still-damp, cleaned up version of Bellamy she barely recognizes. Monty's pants are a bit short on him, but the boy doesn't seem to mind as he stands there awkwardly tugging on his trousers.

"Don't you look handsome, Bellamy," Abby states, kneeling down to his level as she straightens his collar. "Do you feel any better?"

The boy nods, having difficulty meeting her eyes until he spots his little sister.

"O looks beautiful!"

The words rush from him, and he glances at Abby with new appreciation before abandoning all pretext and hugging her. Wet curls brush her cheek as she cradles him to her chest as she'd wanted to do back in the alley, wondering just what in God's name she'd gotten herself into bringing these children into her home, knowing it went far beyond Christmas dinner and a couple of baths. The boy draws back, steps towards his sister and embraces her, releasing her when she begins to cough. He signs something to her, Octavia reciprocating immediately, and he nods and smiles as he holds his sister's hand.

"She says you're nice," Bellamy explains, turning towards Abby. "Even though you nearly pulled out all of her hair."

Marcus barks out a laugh, one he tries to swallow unsuccessfully as she shoots him a look.

"Tell her that I think she's nice, too," Abby instructs, moving towards the stove as Marcus nearly chokes on his own saliva. "And I was getting out tangles, not pulling out hair." Octavia grins at her and runs to hug her leg, nearly knocking her over in the process. Fingers stroke wet, smooth hair, Abby's heart full to the point of bursting as she addresses the rest of them.

"Well, if you all want Christmas Eve Dinner before midnight, you'd better clear out of here and let me get to work. This bread isn't going to bake itself, you know."

Clarke takes Bellamy's hand and leads him into the front room with a squeal of delight, but Octavia doesn't move, clinging to Abby as if she might disappear.

"It's alright, sweetheart," Marcus whispers, kneeling down to the girl's level. "We're not going anywhere. You're safe here."

Octavia stares back at him blankly, holding on to Abby all the tighter.

"Why don't you bring the stool from the pantry in here?" Abby suggests. "She can sit on it while I finish cooking."

He stands up, brushing Abby's cheek with his lips, making her legs feel like putty.

"That's an excellent idea," he agrees. "I'll be right back."

The stool arrives, and Octavia reluctantly releases her grip on Abby's leg to allow Marcus to set her up on the wooden seat. She seems to like her new perch, leaning over to spy on the green beans and potatoes warming on the stove top.

"I wonder what happened to their parents?" Abby whispers, whacking Marcus's hand lightly as he attempts to steal a nibble of mashed potatoes. He swipes a nibble anyway, sliding his finger into his mouth in a manner that's probably not meant to be suggestive but nearly makes her swoon.

"I don't know," he returns. "But I think Bellamy will tell us when he feels comfortable doing so. You should have seen me trying to convince that kid to get into the bathtub," he continues, running his fingers through his unruly mane. "You'd have thought I was attempting to torture him."

She laughs, shaking her head.

"Octavia loves the water. I had to drag her out of the tub before she got all pruny."

"Opposites, then," Marcus observes, exhaling audibly. "Siblings often are."

Something aches inside of her, something related to the child she lost and the one now gazing up at her in adoration. But Octavia coughs then, and Abby faces her, prompting little girl to cover her mouth as she moves to rub the child's back. The girl yawns and leans her head onto Abby's chest, drawn to her like a magnet, her damp hair seeping through Abby's apron little by little.

"She's craves a mother," Marcus states, his voice deep and soft. Their eyes meet, acknowledging a crossroads that had sneaked up on them in the form of two orphaned children.

"I know," Abby whispers, blinking back tears as small arms wrap themselves around her waist. "She needs one badly. And I can't even talk to her."

Her breath is unsteady as he looks into her, patting Octavia on the head as he wraps one arm around Abby. She leans into him as Octavia leans into her, absorbing warmth and courage, feeling not so alone and utterly safe as long as he's by her side.

"We will, Abby," he states, his solid presence more grounding to her now that it has ever been. He's done it again, used the word we, letting her know in no uncertain terms that no matter what happens from this point on, they're in it together. "Don't worry. We will."


	4. Chapter 4

There are no left-overs after dinner.

Every crumb is devoured, every glass emptied, the meal pronounced a huge success by everyone. Bellamy had helped himself to three servings of mashed potatoes as well as two helpings of roast, but nobody had minded, not even Mrs. Green. Octavia had favored the bread over everything else, but she'd sipped her honeyed hot tea dutifully under Abby's watchful eye, having understood clearly that there would be no chocolate cake until her tea had been finished. Her cough has subsided somewhat since they brought the children home, but it lingers, much to Abby's chagrin, giving way to the occasional fit that leaves the girl both exhausted and extra clingy.

Abby is the one to whom she now sit together on the sofa, Octavia leaning contentedly into Abby's chest, chocolate crumbs still clinging to her small chin and fingers from the cake she'd nearly inhaled. They both sit transfixed, watching Marcus light the seventh candle of Hanukkah as Monty, Bellamy and Clarke stand in awe beside him.

"Blessed are you, Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who wrought miracles for our fathers in days of old at this season."

His voice resonates across the room, somehow casting even Mrs. Green under it's spell. The yarmulke suits him, looks natural even, and she feels honored that he's sharing this part of himself with them, this part that belongs to his mother. He sings a blessing in Hebrew, one that caresses her from the inside out, making her feel a part of something sacred, something both ancient and new. The menorah is passed from Marcus to a rather surprised Bellamy, accompanied by instructions for the boy to set it on the end table by the front window where it can be seen by anyone who cares to look.

"A light in the darkness," Marcus explains, and the boy nods eagerly, his back straightening as he takes on such an important task. Marcus beams as his young protege carries the burden carefully, giving Bellamy a pat on the back after he successfully accomplishes his mission.

Marcus smiles at her from across the room, a message of thanks she absorbs into herself, feeling so at home and at ease with him in the midst of what has to be the oddest Christmas Eve she's ever experienced.

"And now for Christmas!" Clarke exclaims as if reading her mind, dashing towards her mother and reaching for Octavia's hand. The little girl retreats, pressing further into Abby, unwilling to give up the claim she's staked.

"It's alright, Clarke," Abby says, squeezing her daughter's hand. "I think it's just been a long time since Octavia has had anyone to hold her."

Her daughter's eyes register understanding, and she smiles in a way that makes her look far older than her eight years.

"Monty and I thought it would be fun do something different this year," Clarke continues, moving back to Monty and Bellamy, leaving Octavia right where she wants to be.

"And what would that be?" Marcus asks as he takes a seat on the sofa next to Abby, yarmulke now removed. She leans into him automatically, her cheeks heating as his arm slides around her shoulders possessively. Mrs. Green's brows shoot up from across the room, her lips pressing together before a small smile spreads across her face.

The two of them have been found out, it would seem.

"We want to act out the Christmas Story," Clarke answers, her face nearly splitting into from excitement. "You know, the one in Luke with the shepherds and the wise men."

"The Wise Men are found in Matthew's account," Marcus corrects her. "Not Luke's." Clarke looks downcast for a moment, prompting him to toss Abby a sheepish look before stating, "But there's no reason we can't combine the two narratives."

Crisis now averted, Clarke again takes charge.

"Bellamy is going to be a shepherd," she says, handing him a piece of somewhat crumpled paper and a makeshift staff before moving along to her next actor. "And Monty is a Wise Man."

The boy grins broadly at this, making Abby chuckle as she wonders just how far the wise men would have gotten if forced to travel on Monty's faulty stilts.

"Mr. Kane, we need you to be Joseph."

Marcus sits up taller and strokes his beard, tossing Abby a conspiratorial a grin as Clarke hands him his hand-written script.

"Typecasting," he whispers, making her chuckle under her breath.

"We'd like Octavia to be an angel, if she wants to be, that is."

Clarke pauses in front of the little girl who looks from Abby to Bellamy in confusion. Her brother signs an explanation, Abby able to discern the signs for "you" and "angel" without too much difficulty. But Octavia is having none of it, and she shakes her head vehemently, pointing to Abby as she repeatedly signs the word "angel".

"She says you're her angel, Mrs. Griffin."

Bellamy has moved to stand in front of her, the stick they'd scavenged to serve as his shepherd's staff discarded by his feet. Tears well up instantly, and she glances at the little girl in her lap, one who'd been covered in dirt and muck but a few hours ago, kissing her forehead as she points at Octavia's chest.

"You're my angel, Octavia," she attempts, her hands forming words that make the child beam. The girl slides down, grabbing Abby's hand as she gestures frantically between the two of them, giving her brother a determined look.

"O says they're both going to be angels," Bellamy tells Clarke with a shrug. "I hope that's okay. She can be really stubborn."

Clarke grins, nodding her head.

"It's wonderful," she returns. "There is supposed to be a host of angels anyway, according to the Bible."

"How many angels are in a host?" Monty asks, looking to Marcus for an answer.

"At least two," Marcus returns, tossing Abby a wink missed by noone.

"I don't think Joseph is supposed to flirt with the angels, Mr. Kane," Monty whispers, loudly enough for everyone to hear. Abby's cheeks heat as Marcus laughs and leans down to whisper a question into the boy's ear.

"No!" Monty exclaims, drawing back in horror. "Joseph definitely cannot kiss the archangel after she sings to the shepherds!"

Marcus, she mouths, tossing him a glare at which he only shrugs. He seems determined to let everyone in on what she'd thought had been their little secret, at least for the time being. Of course, in a house this crowded, few secrets stand a chance of survival, and as he stares at her with those brown eyes of his, she's thinks that perhaps secrets aren't all they're cracked up to be. Especially when he's looking at her like she's even more delectable than the chocolate cake.

"Why not?" Clarke asks, moving back to Monty. "It will add a new level of romance and drama to the story."

"He's married to Mary, Clarke," Monty points out. "And I don't think God would approve of you messing with the sequence of events."

"He's not married to Mary yet," Clarke returns. "They're betrothed, whatever that means, but I know it doesn't mean married. And besides, I think God would approve of Mr. Kane kissing my mom. Don't you, Mr. Kane?"

The room grows silent, and Abby freezes, her heart pounding in her temples, her mouth suddenly too dry for speech. A dull roar sounds in her head as Marcus takes a step towards her, caressing her cheek before depositing a gentle kiss there.

"I don't think God will mind too much if I do," he states. "After all, mistletoe is a part of Christmas tradition."

"But it's not in Luke," Monty sighs. "Or in Matthew. Besides, kissing is disgusting."

"It is not!" Clarke cried, tossing her hands up into the air. "It's wonderful and magical, and my mom deserves a good kiss on Christmas Eve. She hasn't been kissed for a long time, have you mom?."

Abby's jaw drops, and she gapes open-mouthed up at Marcus who is grinning from ear to ear. He's enjoying this, she realizes, a fact which both annoys and further arouses her.

"No, Clarke," she manages, standing up straighter, looking Marcus directly in the eye. "I haven't been kissed since your father passed away."

His eyes soften, his heart on full display for her and her alone. God, she's completely lost to this man, sinking deeper into the depths of Marcus Kane by the second.

"See!," Clarke insists. "That's been a long time ago, Monty. It's only fair that she gets kissed by . It's time for my mom to be happy again."

Words swirl around them, creating some sort of homespun cocoon that draws her closer to him, accentuating her need to touch him. She lays her hand on his chest, feeling Octavia draw back from her somewhat so she can see what's transpiring just above her.

"But right now, he's Joseph," Monty sighs. "And she's the archangel. They're not supposed to kiss! It ruins the whole story, Clarke!"

"Perhaps we should ask the archangel what she wants," Marcus cuts in, his tone lower than it had been seconds earlier. "After all, she should have the final say in this debate."

She swallows, now acutely aware that every eye in the room is focused solely on her.

"I would welcome a kiss from Mr. Kane," she says, her body responding to his darkening eyes. "But it can wait until the play is over so the narrative isn't disturbed."

"Thank you!" Monty exclaims. "Now, can we please get back to the story?"

Warm lips brush her cheek, the gesture private and full of promise.

"I'm looking forward to later," he breathes into her ear, making her shiver from head to toe as he draws back. Her knees nearly give out, but Octavia's tug on her hand keeps her balanced.

"Okay," Clarke continues, having missed their exchange completely. "Mr. Kane, you stand over here by Miss Reyes." She pauses, looking at the young mother directly. "That is, if you'll be Mary and let Flynn be Baby Jesus?"

Raven hesitates, making Abby wonder what all is playing through the young woman's mind. She's most certainly grieving the father of her child, more than likely missing her mother and other family members now a world away from where she now sits. But she nods, smiling through a stray tear, laughing as Clarke tries to lay a worn blanket on top of her head. She adjusts it, allowing Marcus to help her stand as she holds her son all the closer.

"Perfect," Clarke sighs, standing back to look at the pair. She picks up the family Bible and turns to Monty's mother. "Mrs. Greene, would you be willing to narrate? Then I can be the innkeeper."

The woman appears to be stunned by the request, but she nods, accepting the Bible and laying it on her lap.

"We'll start in the second chapter of Luke," Clarke instructs, missing the woman's soft I know as she moves into position.

"Who's the donkey?"

Marcus's question startles the children, and Monty and Clarke stare at each other, shrugging and looking utterly perplexed.

"We don't have a donkey," Clarke admits. "Maybe Monty can…"

"I"m a wise man!" the boys exclaims. "A magi from the east. It won't do for me to also play the part of a beast of burden."

"Don't look at me," Bellamy inserts, taking a step backward into his assigned area. "I have too many sheep to look after."

"We'll just have to have an imaginary donkey," Clarke states, her eyes widening as an idea strikes her. "The piano bench! Let the piano bench be the donkey! It can double as the manger."

Raven nods appreciatively as she moves and takes her seat, and Marcus moves to stand behind her, tossing Abby a look she feels all over.

"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed."

A collective gasp is heard as the narrative begins, everyone gaping at Mrs. Green as her voice is accompanied by her hands moving fluidly in a manner Octavia can understand. The girl steps forward, staring openly, her eyes the size of saucers.

"You didn't tell us you could sign," Abby says, her hand moving to rub Octavia's back.

"You didn't ask," Mrs. Green returns with a shrug. "Now, shall we continue?"

The story does continue, both in speech and sign as Clarke takes on the role of every innkeeper in Bethlehem, declaring she has no room until finally she offers Mary and Joseph a place to stay. Then it's Abby's turn, and she towards Bellamy, Octavia in tow, as Clarke instructs him to look more frightened in the presence of angels.

"Sore afraid, Bellamy," she whispers. "You're supposed to be sore afraid."

"I am!" the boy insists, rolling his eyes at his director as Abby reads her lines. "Just get on with it, Clarke!"

"That's your cue, mom," Clarke states. "It's time for your speech."

Abby holds up the paper, smiling at her daughter's eight year old handwriting as she reads the words from Luke's gospel.

"Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger,"

Flynn gurgles as if on cue, and it hits her then, all of it, how the Christmas story is truly playing out under her own roof. A young unwed mother, a Jewish man acting as a father to children not biologically his own, an infant without a home of his own, societal outcasts being welcomed into the celebration as an intelligent boy from the east waits in the wings for his turn to see the baby. Her heart swells, her eyes filling as a sense of hope she hasn't felt in years nearly overwhelms her.

"Are you alright?"

He's watching her from the makeshift manger, his brow creased in concern as tears freely flow down her cheeks. She nods, smiling as she continues to cry, wiping her face repeatedly as he abandons his post as Joseph and steps towards her.

"It's just...just that it's really Christmas," she mutters as Marcus hands her a handkerchief from his pocket. She brings it to her face, trying to explain emotions that defy words. "And I'm happy. I'm truly, truly happy."

He abandons all pretense and gathers her to his chest, and she leans into him, wrapping her arms around his waist as he pulls her close and kisses her forehead.

"I'm happy, too," he breathes, and she clutches him tighter, burrowing her face into his neck, not caring if her tears wet his skin. "You make me happy, Abby." She holds onto him with everything she has, pressing this moment into memory, trying to absorb him into herself.

"You love my mom!" Clarke exclaims, dashing over to them, her chest rising and falling at a frenzied pace. "Don't you, Mr. Kane?"

They draw back from each other slowly, the room darkening around her as her focus hones in on the man standing in front of her, the one smiling at her with a tenderness that will be her undoing, the one she wants to kiss into oblivion and then back again.

"I do," he utters, his words tickling her skin. "I love her very much."

The room spins, and she laughs out loud, feeling caught up in a dream twirling around her as fantasy and reality collide in a brilliant burst of color.

"Mom!" Clarke practically squeals. "This is where you say that you love him, too!"

She smiles as a tears continue to fall freely, looking from her daughter to the little girl who refuses to let go of her leg then back to the man she now cannot imagine living without.

"I do," she breathes, her chest swelling at the radiant smile that greets her declaration. A tear trickles down his own cheek, and she wipes it away with her thumb, cupping his face with her hand. "I love him so much it hurts."

He kisses her then, his lips claiming hers in a manner that makes her toes curl. Her arms wrap around his neck and pull him closer, and she opens her mouth to him, tingling as he moans into the kiss.

"Just get married," Bellamy exclaims, rolling his eyes in their direction. They draw back from each other, her throat constricting further at the look in his eyes.

"Yes!" "Clarke cries. "Get married! Please, mom. You know that you want to!"

She can't breathe, can't process as her extremities tingle. He's looking into her again, seeing more than she knows, and he leans in, his mouth hovering over her lips, his scent making it impossible to concentrate on anything but him.

"I know it's rather sudden," Marcus states, nudging her nose with his. "But I'm game if you are."

Her eyes widen, and she draws back, needing to see if he's serious or not. God-he is serious, and her heart nearly explodes, pounding so hard now it's hard for her to hear. Dark eyes stare back at her expectantly, patiently, full of a love she'd feared she never experience again when she buried her husband three and half years ago.

"I'm sorry," he stutters, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I shouldn't put you on the spot like this…"

"I'm game," she interrupts, his eyes shooting back to hers. She strokes his cheek and beard with her free hand, drawing Octavia into her side with the other. "If you're serious."

She swallows with what moisture remains in her mouth, and he kisses her again, mouth open, tongue searching, feelings on full display. Awww, God, she hears Bellamy utter as Flynn whimpers, then everything melts away until there is only this, only them, only two broken people who've discovered in the midst of a rather unusual family that they complete each other. Octavia lets go of her hand only to wrap her arms around Abby's leg, and she smiles into Marcus's kiss, now free to wrap both arms around his neck and pull him even closer.

"I'm serious," he whispers as they draw back for air, noses and foreheads still connected. She wipes his lips with her thumb, trying to remove traces of her lipstick as the room goes crazy around them.

"You're insane," she returns, making him laugh heartily. "Look at what you're getting yourself into."

He steps back then, his arm still around her waist as he surveys the delightful chaos.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," he states, leaning over to kiss her temple. Clarke throws her arms around Marcus, hugging him tightly as he releases Abby's waist so he can hug the girl back.

"It's my Christmas wish," Clarke says, her grip uncompromising. "I asked Santa for you to be my new dad, and now you will be!"

Her breath catches as a sob comes out of Marcus's throat, and she watches as he holds Clarke all the tighter until she can't stand it anymore. She wraps her arms around both of them in some sort of benediction, one that feels every bit as holy as a pronouncement of marriage given by a priest.

Another set of arms wraps around her, one accompanied by still damp hair and sticky hands, and she draws Octavia into their circle as Marcus reaches out for Bellamy and Monty, bringing the boys into their hug until Monty cries out that he's being squished.

They laugh as they release each other, everyone falling into a tangled heap on the floor as tears continue to fall freely down her cheeks.

"I love you," Marcus whispers, pushing himself upright before reaching out to help her stand. She takes his hand, not letting go when she's on her own two feet. "I hope you won't get tired of hearing me say that, because I'll be saying it a lot."

Only she hears him in the resulting chaos of what's happened, and she smiles, her cheeks beginning to ache from it, her ribs expanded as far as they can go.

"I won't," she breathes, her arms moving back around his waist. "Because I love you, too."

Getting the children into bed is a chore, what with the excitement of Christmas, new people in the house and an unexpected engagement taking place right in front of their eyes. Octavia is reluctant to be separated from Abby, but she finally settles in with Clarke, hugging Abby's neck tightly after being tucked in snugly under Clarke's yellow blanket.

"She adores you," Marcus whispers as they close the bedroom door.

"The feeling is mutual," Abby says, her heart cinching at the hopeful uncertainty surrounding Octavia and Bellamy. She knows they'll have to research the children's backgrounds, will have to ascertain if they have suitable family who will want to care for them now that their parents are dead. But if they did have family who wanted them, would they have been camping out in the cold, alone and practically starving?

She already knows the answer to this question. Somehow in the grand scheme of things, these children are meant to be hers. No, theirs-her's and Marcus's. She's baffled by how easily she's come to accept this fact, just as she's certain that Marcus has reached the same conclusion as she.

He's a natural father in every sense of the word.

It is decided that Bellamy will bunk in with Marcus, and the boy is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow, black curls spreading out over the white fabric, snoring before Marcus can even turn off the light.

"I wonder when the last time was he actually slept through the night?" Marcus questions as he heads to the kitchen with her to help with the dishes.

"I'm sure it's been a while," Abby answers, putting her apron back on as she turns on the tap. "He's been watching out for Octavia for some time now. That much is obvious."

"I think a part of him has forgotten how to be a child," Marcus states as he picks up the dish towel and moves to stand beside her at the sink.

"Then we'll have to remind him, won't we?" she returns, placing the dirty plates into soapy water.

"Yes," he says, kissing her softly, his eyes creased in wonder. "We will."

"What are you doing?"

She's about to finally turn in, the dishes washed, gifts in place for the morning, all the lights turned off when she spies him with a pillow and a blanket, approaching the stairs on tiptoe. He turns at her inquiry, moving towards her bedroom where she stands, clad in her floor length robe.

"Bellamy has taken over my bed," Marcus whispers with a shrug. "So I thought I'd commandeer the couch." She leans in to kiss him, unable to resist his lips now that she's tasted them for herself. He responds instantly, pulling back sooner than she likes.

"If you keep kissing me like that, I'll never make it downstairs, Abby," he breathes, her inner thighs beginning to tingle rebelliously.

"I've got room," she responds, tugging him into her body, the pillow and blanket falling to the floor forgotten as he reclaims her mouth with gusto. She's melting into him, needing this man in ways she can't share with the children as her hips press into his groin. She feels rather than hears his moan, trembles as he goes from kissing to devouring her, nearly jumps out of her skin as his hands graze her bottom.

"We shouldn't," he manages, pulling back just enough to breathe.

"I know," she whispers, licking her lips. "But are we going to let that stop us? Besides, who wants to sleep on the couch on Christmas?"

He chuckles softly, one hand splaying over her derriere, the other working its way into her hair.

"What do we tell the children in the morning if they ask?" he asks. "And Mrs. Green?"

"That you needed a place to sleep," she answers, pulling him inside her room. "And that I was the only innkeeper who offered you a room."

He pauses, bending down to retrieve his fallen pillow and blanket, carrying them with him as he allows himself to be drawn back into her. He lays them down on her floor before claiming her mouth once more, the fabric of her robe bunching within his fingers, her every sense tuned into this incredible man who loves her.

"I don't think Monty would approve," he utters, kissing her again as his hands move up her back. "After all, this is not in the narrative."

She clears her throat, drawing back far enough to speak.

"And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered," she quotes, her eyes never leaving his. "I've been delivered this Christmas, Marcus. Delivered from grieving into living and loving again. Delivered from fearing uncertainty to celebrating it. So trust me. We're a part of the Christmas story, you and I."

He swallows audibly, clearing his throat.

"And the children," he whispers, his eyes misting over at the words.

"And the children," she agrees, kissing just below his ear, feeling his pulse beneath her lips. "Our children."

Mouths create their own music, a song meant only for them as bodies tingle and new intimacies are discovered.

"I love you," he mutters, untying the sash of her robe, allowing her to unbutton his pajama top, trembling under her touch. She kisses him soundly as her robe hits the floor, her heart unleashed as senses take over.

"I love you, too," she breathes, clinging to him as conversation ceases and new life begins.


End file.
